


Deserving To Live

by FanficsbyVe



Category: Bloodborne (Video Game)
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-14
Updated: 2016-01-14
Packaged: 2018-05-13 23:41:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5721457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FanficsbyVe/pseuds/FanficsbyVe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A look at the life of the Hunter, before he came to Yharnam. Going with the Professional origin. One-shot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Deserving To Live

Some people have a keen sense for the illusive, it’s said. They can see things that no one else does and hear truths others are deaf to. And sometimes, they can sense tragedy coming well before it ever meets them.

He knew the moment he woke up that something was off. That early autumn morning, dry but dreary was one of loss. It was this tiny unsettling feeling, a sense of intuition that he had learned to cultivate by lack of other skills expected of his gender. He had come to trust it, rely on it, and an unpleasant cold gripped him as he turned to his right.

The small black cat, curled up against him, was motionless. Her eyeless sockets remained shut even as he petted her and her gray-streaked fur had lost its sheen. He froze. Then and there, he knew she had passed away.

“So you couldn’t stay any longer, Ink?”

A horrible lump formed in his throat. With trembling hands, he reached out to the seemingly lifeless body. It remained limp in his grip and the reality of the situation became ever more apparent to him. Biting his lip, he brought the empty husk close to him and buried his face in its fur, feeling tears sting behind his eyes. Even though he knew this could’ve happened any day now, it did not make it easier… 

“Master, are you awake? I have brought you breakfast… And no complaining about the lack of butter, I have strict orders from your mother to…”

The voice of the maidservant shook him from his reverie. He snapped his head towards her, almost glaring at her, and saw how she leaned back in shock and confusion. It was only then that she noticed the black, motionless body in his arms and she gave him a sigh.

“Oh, that mangy old stray of yours finally gave up the ghost? Not surprising. She was already an old lady and couldn’t even catch mice anymore.”

She didn’t mean it badly, he really understood she didn’t. To her, and everyone else in this household, Ink had simply been a curiosity he had chosen to maintain for reasons beyond them. She had not been particularly useful or endearing with her odd appearance and handicaps and no one had any understanding for the emotions he might harbor for the small creature.

Not quite in the mood to deal with her flippant attitude, he interrupted anything else she wanted to say with a brisk tone. “Put my food on the table over there, Emma. I’d like to be alone.”

She didn’t miss the sting of his voice and realizing he was in a bad way, she quickly put the tray down and slinked out of the room again. She quickly took two small bowls with her, the ones he knew were meant for his cat, and it only drove home the events of this morning even more. It was time…

Still not willing to part with his now dead friend, he got up from bed and limped to the table. The raging physical pain, which had been his companion ever since he was a little boy, shot through his legs with every step. He tried to ignore it and forced himself to sit at the chair. He looked over his breakfast and sighed.

Dry toast, a glass of water and a bowl of blueberries. The kind of joyless food that was supposedly good for people in advanced stages of consumption. Being a master of medicine at Cambridge, he knew this was correct, but what point was there to prolonging his life if it would be one of constant pain and seclusion? 

It wasn’t like his family seemed happy about the arrangement either. His father seemed to take it as a personal offense his seed had brought forth a perpetually sick child. It got in the way of establishing a life of better fortune among the social elite, it seemed. His social ineptness and lack of interest in the activities of the Victorian gentleman only increased his sire’s resentment, avoiding him in favor of his older brothers. 

His mother found him too frail and not nearly as interesting to be involved with as his two younger sisters. After all, they were beautiful girls and those could be easily groomed and primed to lure in a wealthy husband of status with the right kind of dowry. A terminally sick son had no such chance and should not be wasted too much energy on. Therefore, he was the middle child and black sheep and it was clear his family was just waiting for him to croak before them so he would not squander part of the inheritance.

The toast was terrible, more like the kind of crackers one would feed to sharpen a parrot’s beak than human food. His parents might think it would improve his situation somewhat, but he swore it was chafing his insides and making it worse. He sighed, once again stroking the lifeless heap on his lap. None of these people realized that if it wasn’t for that “mangy stray of his”, he would have already considered walking off the roof of their Blackpool estate years ago.

He still remembered the day he found her. It had been a warm summer’s day twenty years ago. His family had been out and about in the garden. He had been holed up in the shadow of a tree, reading a book and not feeling so ill for once, when his younger sister announced she had found kittens in the garden shed. It turned out a stray cat had sought refuge there and given birth to a litter. Their parents had deemed it alright for the cat to stay there, as it kept vermin at bay, and now she had offspring, he and his siblings wanted nothing more than to see the fuzzy little things.

The litter was indeed the cutest thing they had ever seen. Five little bundles of fur, having just opened their eyes, and making soft noises while drinking their mother’s milk. The cat was friendly enough to let them pet her kittens and they had spent several minutes just gawking and cooing at them before the gardener told them to give them some privacy again.

It was then that he had noticed it. About a foot away from the nest was another kitten, black as tar and reasonably small. Thinking it had wandered off, he had rushed over and picked it up, determined to bring it back to its mother. As he did so, however, he quickly realized something was wrong with it.

Where the other kittens were peering into the world with little blue eyes, this one did no such thing. In fact, it didn’t appear to have eyes at all, only empty sockets where they should have been. Its skinny little body was wrought with bald patches and covered in fleas and it barely made any sound. 

When he had notified the gardener in a state of alarm, the man had walked over and calmly informed him that this was likely the runt of the litter. It was probably rejected by the mother and pushed out by its siblings due to it being smaller and weaker. It would likely soon starve and even if it didn’t, the pests and its blindness would surely kill it before it grew up proper. In fact, it was rather cruel to leave it to such a slow death and it would be kindest to quickly drown it in a bucket rather than letting it suffer.

He had felt nauseous at hearing that. Seeing a sickly little creature like this stirred compassion in him and he swore he saw himself in the rejected kitten. The idea that it only deserved a quick death before it had even experienced the world made him sick…and angry. 

Without so much as thinking, he had snatched the kitten from the gardener’s hand and ran as fast as his sickly legs could carry him. Once he reached his parents, he stopped to cough up blood from the strain. Still, he boldly declared that this was his kitten now and he would try to make it better, much to their shock and indignation and their guests'. Naturally, his father had snarled at him to be quiet and to get rid of the flea-ridden stray, but he didn’t budge an inch and screamed louder, determined to have his way for once. 

He would have surely lost his case, had his aunt not risen and taken his side. Aunt Hana was a petite, elegant Japanese woman that his uncle had met on his travels abroad, married and took home to Great Britain. Despite looking like a fish out of water, she took well to the British lifestyle, though never failed to be critical of certain aspects of its people. She was silk hiding steel, thoroughly lacking the subservient attitude the English assumed or desired of Asian women. Additionally, she was less than complimentary about his parents' disdain towards him and seemed to make it her mission to sabotage their authority wherever she could.

He had always liked her for her kindness towards him and this increased when she declared him keeping the kitten a wonderful idea and offered to help him out. After all, since he was so sick and couldn’t play with the other children well, he could use a companion. No doubt she said it as much to help him as to upset his parents and their highborn guests, but he didn’t care. It was good somebody took his side for once, especially to save a helpless little life.

Aunt Hana had been true to her word. Her father had been a veterinarian and she herself was experienced at healing sick animals. She showed him how to wash the kitten with lemon and rosemary to kill the fleas and how to remove the eggs with a small comb. She even helped him make a special goat’s milk formula and trained him in how to feed it with a bottle. All of it wasn’t simple or easy to do for a five-year-old boy and despite his aunt’s faith in him and constant tutoring, his family would often tell him he was much crueler by doing this rather than by letting the kitten die quickly. 

Yet the kitten didn’t die. As the weeks slowly went by, its sickness went away and it started to grow. It became more vocal and mobile, being affectionate to him in a way that was beyond the realm of what he knew cats to be. By the time it was weaned, he finally dared to give it a name. His aunt had told him it was a little girl and with her beautiful black fur, it only seemed right to name her for that feature. Seeing how his five-year-old mind was not the most creative one, “Ink” was the first name that came to mind. 

Of course, his family hadn’t much appreciated her becoming a part of the household. As a newly rich family of social climbers, they preferred creatures of finer pedigree to be seen at that their estate. His parents had frequently insisted they’d be happy to trade the cat for a beautiful bird or even a thoroughbred horse. He had always scoffed at them, happily rejecting their status symbols if that meant he could keep his beloved former stray.

Indeed, Ink was fine company to him. Being raised by him, she was immensely loyal, listening to her name and following him around wherever he went. Being born blind didn’t seem to bother her at all. She would jump, run, and climb as well as any other cat once she had memorized the premises and she even caught mice at times using only her excellent hearing. Yet her favored activity was simply being lazy and sleeping, though preferably if it was curled up and purring in his vicinity. 

He was incredibly thankful for that last one. Despite the best care that money could buy, his consumption didn’t seem to become any better with age. The internal bleedings became more frequent. He would regularly cough up blood. Any long-term outing would leave him worn out and in pain. Yet for some inexplicable reason, the disease refused to simply let him die and by the time he was a teen, his life was becoming an endless string of emergency doctor’s visits and bedbound days.

Ink was always there during those difficult years. She seemed to understand that he was gravely ill and felt it was necessary to watch over him, but didn’t treat him like a brittle vase. She would stay with him when he was sick and lonely, but just as many times, she’d demand that he’d play with her or would entice him to escape his room via the many kinds of escape routes only a cat could find. The two of them would often roam Blackpool together and these moments of freedom were some of the happiest of his childhood.

His other comfort, beside his pet’s antics, were his books. He compensated for his weak body with a strong mind and a tremendous desire to learn. Even though a prestigious public school wasn’t an option, his aunt cared enough to arrange a private tutor for him. He proved himself a quick, eager student and when he reached his late teens, he developed a strong desire to go to university. More than anything else, he wanted to become a doctor so he might one day find a cure for people like himself. 

That dream, of course, was initially out of reach. By the time he was sixteen, the family physician had confided in his parents that he would probably never fight the consumption. He would likely die before he reached the age of thirty and that with his immune system, they could only delay the disease rather than cure it. His family had responded appropriately. They did their Christian duty as parents by keeping him alive with proper food and shelter. They also did their duty as social climbers by keeping him out of sight, abandoning any plans for a profitable marriage match and limiting his inheritance to a single old, decrepit estate near Bristol and all its assets, with his brothers as his heirs. What's more, they denied him any right to a further education.

His parents told him that, unlike his brothers, there was no point in him going. He would likely not live long, so why should they waste their money on getting him an advanced education? Besides, they doubted he would even survive life on campus in his state. More importantly, he could not bring Ink along and they certainly didn’t consider themselves responsible for her in his absence. 

Naturally, these things soured the already uneasy relationship between him and his family immensely. While the inheritance or a marriage didn’t mean all that much to him, he didn’t ask to be born with such poor health and he resented the fact they treated him like something to be ashamed of. Even if he would die young, he wanted to make the most of his life and he refused to spend it locked away with some books until death would take him. As such, he slowly gave up on trying to maintain any kind of relationship at all and turned his mind to the future and the one furry member of the household who didn’t treat him like a burden. Because if there was one thing his dear companion had taught him, it was that a handicap wasn't the end of things.

Therefore, their refusal to help him that not deterred him in the sligthest; it made him more determined than ever. His entire life, he had refused to be held down by the consumption ravaging his body and as he certainly wasn’t about to give up on his dreams now. So, while seemingly accepting their decision, he secretly went around raising funds of his own for his tuition, selling the many toys and trinkets his more spoiled siblings had grown tired of.

Once again enlisting the help of Aunt Hana, her last act of kindness before she passed away a year later, he sent an application letter. When he found out he was accepted, he simply packed up his stuff, took his cat and left in the middle of the night. He left a letter to his parents stating he’d be in Cambridge for the next four years and they wouldn’t see him again for a while.

The years in Cambridge were some of the happiest of his young life. While he cared little for the muscular Christian attitude that pervaded the place, he enjoyed studying medicine. Keeping his finances up with a side job as a bean counter at a local coffee business, he learned things he could never even imagine about the human body and there was no describing how much he enjoyed his newfound freedom. Here, he could do the things he loved the most and even though his condition sometimes flared up violently, it was nice working towards a goal without constantly being reminded of an imminent demise. 

Keeping Ink turned out not to be a problem either. He couldn't stay at the dorms of the university, but his condition permitted him to rent a small room in town. The kind elderly landlady had no problem with him owning a cat and enjoyed the animal’s company herself while he was away. As such, she was perfectly taken care of during the many hours he was off at university.

It was there that he first heard of it. One of his professors mentioned Yharnam, a mysterious city in the eastern part of Europe. According to the whispers, it had wealth beyond imagining and some of the most advanced doctors in the world. It was said that they had even found a panacea, a form of blood transfusion, which could heal the most severe diseases. The Yharnamites were highly protective of their knowledge, however, and there were rumors of strange goings-on and heathen cults ruling the town, only handing out their cure in exchange for people hunting strange beasts.

Of course, this caught his attention. He had always liked a good ghost story, but it was the miracle medicine that truly captured his attention. Almost immediately, he wondered if this supposed panacea could perhaps heal consumption. If there was any chance, any at all, for him to be healed and live a long, fruitful life, he’d certainly like to know about it. 

When he asked, however, the teacher seemed remarkably tightlipped. He urged him not to inquire too much and simply focus on his study. In a quiet moment, he had confided in him that he had actually been in the city, seventy years ago. When he skeptically answered that his teacher didn’t look any older than thirty, the man outright dismissed him and simply insisted he should not ask further. He had seen terrible things in that city, things he’d rather forget. As far as he was concerned, Yharnam should be left untouched and even better, left to rot.

It was the last time they ever spoke about Yharnam. Of course, not because he gave up on it. He refused to give up on that one small chance that he may live to grow old. It was rather that his professor gave up on life entirely.

He still remembers the day that he and a couple of other students, worried about him now showing up at the university, found his body at his home. Hung from the overhead stairs, strangled by rope and his bowels long emptied on the floor. It was a gruesome sight and the suicide note in his pocket explained nothing. All it contained was a lament about having lived well over a century and some scribbles about Yharnam, about rabid beasts, a “School of Mensis”, a moon drawing near and a word that would haunt him forever. 

“Paleblood”. 

The man’s death and that word, continued to follow him for the rest of his tenure at Cambridge. What could it be? Was it the name of the cure? The source of what the professor claimed was a life of over a century? The man who could provide him with those answers was gone and every single night, lying in bed with Ink at his side, it kept him up wondering.

He was going to go to Yharnam after graduating, he decided. He was going to that city, infiltrate it and somehow find that panacea his professor had talked about. The fact it might cause an unnaturally long lifespan was off little importance. He had no desire to live forever or deal with the supernatural, but his disease got worse and he was nearly high on morphine every day now. He was willing to make a deal with the devil if it meant spending a few decades without the constant pain and fatigue. He’d gladly become a hunter and kill some vermin for that.

That became his goal and he doubled his efforts to achieve it. He studied hard, worked his side-job with fervor and regularly went on excursions around Cambridge to visit the local doctors and surgeons to learn more. Every day left him worn and sick, but he couldn’t care less if he got to rest at home and return to the company of his pet. He had something to look forward to, some way to perhaps cure his failing body and live a more fruitful life.

His hard work paid off. He graduated top of his class and while he was the only one there without family to witness it, he had never felt more proud. He had accomplished his goal and with a doctorate under his belt, he was now ready to move on to something even grander. He was going to go to Yharnam, to find the cure that would finally heal him.

At least, that was his plan until he retreated to his room again that night and had Ink curled up against him. As he petted the purring little feline, it was for the very first time that he noticed the gray hairs her fur started to accumulate. She was moving slower too and seemed to be a little harder of hearing sometimes. It was that night that he finally acknowledged a painful truth about his beloved cat.

Ink was seventeen years old now. An old lady, already near the end of her life. She likely wouldn’t weather a journey across the continent very well, perhaps not even survive it. She was an elderly animal who couldn’t travel anymore, but the idea to leave her here with his landlady didn’t sit well with him either. While he knew the older woman loved the animal dearly and would take good care of her, he realized he couldn’t bear to part with her. Ink had been with him for most of his life now, during all the times he was sick and helpless. To leave her to face her remaining time alone while he left to save his own skin felt like an unforgivable betrayal…

That night, he made the hardest decision of his life. Knowing life at the university had not done his health any good and with the consumption rendering him unable to get a fulltime job, he would do the thing he despised the most for Ink’s sake. He would return home, pretend to come back with his tail between his legs, and stay there until his faithful companion would finally pass away from old age.

Now, three years later, that day had finally come. His cat had passed away peacefully in her sleep, at the incredibly old age of twenty years old. He liked to think it was the result of the good quality of life he had offered her, that she lived this long because she was truly healthy and happy. Even so, it didn’t make things any easier. 

When he finally digested the loathsome breakfast, he willed himself to stand and, carrying Ink’s body, he stumbled out of his room and out of the estate. He dragged himself through the garden towards the shed. It was long devoid of any cats now and he strongly doubted that Ink’s mother or even her other siblings were still alive either. He took a shovel and limped over the nearby flowerbeds, forcing his pained body to dig a shallow hole.

Once he was done, he quietly wrapped his cat in a large cloth and held her close one final time. “Goodbye sweetheart. I miss you already… You know I have to go now. I don’t have any reason to stay anymore. I don’t know if I’ll ever see you again… If I don’t…I want you to know is that you made my life a little brighter these last twenty years. I can only hope I did the same for you.”

With that, he put her down in the small grave and shoveled the dirt back. Afterwards, he collapsed at the nearest tree, gnashing his teeth at the pain coursing through his body. From there, he quietly watched the makeshift final resting place. He smiled wryly. Buried among the roses at the end of a long, happy life… Not a bad end for a blind, sick little kitten due for a mercy kill in a water bucket. Ink had spat on the low expectations the world had of her. Now, it was time for him to do the same. 

When his strength finally returned to him, he got up and returned to the house. He changed into some simple traveling clothes and pulled a traveling case out of his closet, beginning to pack. With Ink gone, so was his reason to stay and he didn’t plan to do so a second longer than he had to. Only bothering with the necessities, it didn’t take long for him to get ready. Besides, he had already made the proper arrangements three years ago.

Once he was done, he went downstairs to where the rest of the family was still eating their disproportionally large breakfast. As tense as their relationship had become, he felt he at least owed them an explanation of where he’d be off to. As such, rather than leave a letter, he stepped into the doorway to tell them of his plans in person.

His father was the first to notice him. “Oh Nathaniel, you want to join us? Starved for company? Emma told you that stray of yours finally went to meet its maker. Long overdue, if you asked me.”

He simply ignored the snide remark about his pet and assessed everyone else at the table. His father was smirking, clearly delighted at being rid of what he deemed an unwelcome guest. His mother lowered her head and continued eating, holding her peace as she always did when her husband was mean-spirited towards their children. His two brothers sniggered and his sisters were too busy giggling about future husbands to even care. It was only then that his father noticed the suitcase.

“You’re rather overly prepared to go to the beach.”

He simply rolled his eyes before stating his intentions. “I am leaving Blackpool. I’m going to Yharnam.”

Almost immediately, his father started laughing. “Yharnam? You’re going to the eastern backwater? In your state? And who is going to pay for the trip? I don’t plan to waste money on a dead man walking.”

Again, there was a sycophantic snicker from his brothers, but he kept an even face. “I've already arranged the money for my travels. I don’t need anything from you.”

His father laughed so hard some of the bacon of his breakfast came out of his mouth. “You got money? Where would a consumption-ridden twig like you, with no income, gather the money for that kind of trip?”

For the first time in years, a wide smirk came onto his face. “I sold my part of the inheritance.”

Almost instantly, an all-consuming silence enveloped the room. The clang of his father’s spoon on the table was deafening. The man stared at him with a look that could have killed a small animal. He merely remained where he was, still smirking defiantly.

“You what?”

Never had explaining something given him so much joy. “That decrepit house you gave me in Bristol? It was legally mine and I was entitled to do with it as I pleased. You signed the documents when I asked you to three years ago, thinking I wouldn’t live long enough to make use of it. Well, I did, in the way that I saw fit.”

Now, his mother was staring at him, pale as a sheet. “You sold Southmont Hall? Great-aunt Edna’s estate that has been in the family for generations?”

He shrugged. “Well, none of you ever did anything with it but let it rot, so yes, I sold it. Or rather, I sold everything valuable still in it like the art, jewels and furniture. And parts of the house itself, like the good quality bricks and roof tiles and all the scrapped metal. Oh and the ground. The house wasn’t much to look at but the ground was brimming with coal. An industrialist paid me a fortune for it. Enough to make a luxury trip to Yharnam and back thrice over, but the Lord knows I’m not as wasteful as the rest of you. And here you said I had no business acumen…” 

As he talked, he could see how his father expression changed. It grew angrier and angrier and his skin started to take on the color of a tomato. Suddenly, he rose up, slamming his hands up the table hard enough to startle the rest of the family and the maidservant just coming in. A hellish shouted tore forth from his throat, incorporating the kind of language he’d never use elsewhere to maintain the illusion of a higher class. 

“You bloody little gob shite! I should wring your filthy little neck right here for pulling a stunt like that on me! You have turned me into the laughing stock of Blackpool, you manky git!”

Once upon a time, his father’s screaming would have scared him. Back when he was a child and still worked his hardest to please. Before he realized that in his terminally sick state, he would never be able to. Those years of intense sadness, however, had hardened him and now, he could only meet his family’s harsh words with disdain.

“Killing me will surely get you the house back. Except it won’t and you would be in gaol within days. Bugger you and bugger Blackpool. I have nothing to stay for. I have a coach to catch and wasted enough words already. Yharnam is waiting for me.”

With those words, he picked up his traveling case and walked, almost laughing as his father called after him, beet red and frothing at the mouth. “Fine, kill yourself on your useless quest to get better and do the work for me! You won’t make it! In your pitiable state, you’ll die before you’re halfway across Europe!”

He flashed the older man the first grin he had ever dared in his life. “I don’t mind dying for a useless cause. It trumps giving up and doing nothing. Farewell, father, mother. Siblings. I am off to Yharnam and hopefully better fortunes. Do not expect me to return any time soon.”

Without waiting for a response, he walked out the house. Not once did he look to see if any of his relatives bothered to get up and follow him. He made his way down the gardens and out the gates, hailing the family’s coachman as he pulled up. He got in and asked the man to go into town, to where he could find a stagecoach heading in the direction of Dover. 

He had his plan all laid out. He’d take the ferry from Dover to Calais. Then, from France, he would travel east to Yharnam by whatever means he could. It was not going to be easy. He could already feel the consumption shooting through his body just going over the bumpy roads. Even so, he believed it was worth the attempt.

He briefly looked out the back window. This was it. He was truly leaving home. Everything he had to stay for was now buried underneath a rose bush and with that, there was nothing left to keep him in a stifling household. His cat was gone, after a long and plentiful life, and after so many years of cheerfully ensuring her happiness in a world where neither one of them was welcome, it was now time to chase after his own. She, more than anyone else, had taught him it was necessary…and possible.

He could do it. Somehow, he was sure of it, even though he could see the blood on his sleeve while he coughed. He was going to make it to Yharnam. He was going to go to Yharnam, become a Hunter killing some beasts and then go on to live a life free of his horrid sickness. Little Ink, with all her flaws, refused to be held down by her handicaps and had deserved to live. As far as he was concerned, so did he.


End file.
